


Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Angst, Broken Laurence travels to the past and uhhh... does his duty I guess, I Don't Even Know, M/M, POV Outsider, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 19:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18037637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Laurence awakens in 1804 during the moment of Temeraire's hatching. He weighs his knowledge and makes a choice.





	Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

 

 

> **I. Reliant**
> 
>  

“Temeraire.”

"What?”

Thomas Riley turns to look at his Captain, confused. Captain Laurence is very pale, swaying as he regards the tiny black dragon wriggling free of its egg. Riley turns too, but he can see nothing about the creature that merits concern. The dragon is beautifully slender, with a good conformation, though Riley admits he is no judge of such things. In any case there is no reason for Laurence to look so stricken.

Except for the bumbling of poor Midshipman Carver, anyway, who stares after the dragon helplessly as it starts to explore the deck. Riley wants to scold the boy, though in truth he is equally taken aback by the dragon's inquisitive searching. The harness droops forgotten in Carver's hands.

Laurence seems to be holding his breath. Riley wonders if perhaps he is ill.

And then the dragon stops in front of them, and asks, “Why are you frowning?”

* * *

  
Captain Laurence – who is now a captain of the Corps, and not the navy – has been very quiet since Temeraire's hatching. Riley cannot fault him for this, even if it is a little irksome to step over his distracted form on the deck as Laurence reads to the ever-curious dragon. They have all become accustomed to hearing Dr. Dorsits's medical texts read aloud all the day, with Temeraire curled quietly and snugly against Laurence's side, though sometimes he interjects to ask very amusing questions about English society.

And sometimes, before the dragon is too large, Laurence hides them both away in the captain's quarters. Riley wonders what they talk about then.

After a few days Laurence's silence seems more thoughtful than stunned, though he is always grim. Riley invites him to a private dinner four days after the hatching, leaving Temeraire on the deck so they can converse alone.

Riley asks what Laurence intends to do.

“That – will you truly join the Corps?” Riley asks. The resultant silence makes him fumble, explain: “I only mean of course that it will not be expected of you – that I am sure the admiralty will try to let you remain - “

He trails off, suddenly uncomfortable. Perhaps the question is too sensitive, especially so soon.

“Do you ever wonder,” asks Laurence slowly, “If we are fighting on the right side of the war?”

Laurence is rightfully the last person from whom Riley would expect such thoughts. Yet he checks himself; Laurence's life has just been upheaved. Surely he can be excused for talking a little thoughtlessly.

“I do not,” says Riley. “And of course you are preoccupied. Duty demands much, sometimes; I do not have to tell you that. Yet all our efforts come to something in the end. We can rest easy to know we defend England – through whatever means.”

“Through whatever means,” Laurence echoes, picking at his fish.

The dinner becomes awkward from there. Laurence seems wholly preoccupied in his food, and Riley soon regrets his boldness. Perhaps it was too much, he thinks, to presume to explain the notion of duty to a man who was so recently his captain. Certainly Laurence must have contemplated the subject enough these past few days. Laurence departs early, and Riley feels guiltily relieved.

He does not think much of the odd dinner until a few weeks later. Laurence has been taking Temeraire on slowly-lengthening flights, and after a near-disastrous gale Temeraire saves the lives of one of the crewmen. Laurence praises the dragon but seems strangely troubled. The next day Temeraire lazes around the deck, relaxing after his exertion; the day after that, Laurence spends some time adjusting his makeshift-saddle before telling Riley that he and Temeraire will be going on a long flight. To test Temeraire's endurance, he says.

“Are you sure it is safe?” asks Riley. “Perhaps when we are closer to the island...”

“I think we have a good notion of his limits,” says Laurence.

“And I would quite like to see Africa,” adds Temeraire.

Riley is sure he would; the dragon has no concept of safety. He agrees to the venture with reluctance – though, in truth, he can hardly object. Yet before their departure Laurence hesitates, sitting tall astride Temeraire's back and looking around the ship with a strangely wistful eye.

“Is something wrong?” asks Riley.

Temeraire cranes his head around, but at last Laurence shakes his head. He has a bag with him today, for some reason. Before Riley can question this Laurence turns to him.

“Sometimes,” Laurence says grimly, “I believe that the Almighty has a sense of humor; and I do not think I care for his idea of comedy.”

Riley is unsure how to answer this. He nods politely. With a deep sigh, Laurence says, “Pray let us go, Temeraire. Good-bye Tom.”

* * *

Captain Riley steps out onto the deck and addresses Midshipman Carver. “Have they returned yet?”

“No, sir,” says the young officer. “We haven't sighted them.”

Riley steps up to the railing with a frown.

It has been nearly a month since Temeraire's hatching. They are just miles from the coast of Africa and should reach Madeira within days. Laurence and Temeraire left in the early-morning to fly for Temeraire's breakfast, but they have never been gone so long.

“Sir - do you suppose they are lost?” asks Carver.

“I trust that Mr. Laurence knows how to navigate,” Riley says. “And he knows the course quite well.”

But he wonders, too.

Riley waits on the deck as the watches change. He waits as the sky darkens and stars begin to peer through the sky. When he must at last retreat to his cabin he orders the watch to alert him at once should Temeraire be spotted.

He sleeps deeply through the night and is never roused. In the morning Riley remembers his order and rushes to the deck, but the square of wood cleared away for Temeraire is empty.

They reach Madeira two days later. Laurence and Temeraire never return.

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **I – Foreign Visitors**
> 
> **1805, August 24**

This is an average morning in the life of the French Emperor:

Napoleon is roused at 4am for an 'emergency,' which is a fresh message from their troops in Austria. It requires immediate reply, which he dictates to a secretary while breaking his fast. Then he sends another message to the _Moniteur,_ Paris' official paper, to shape the way the public will receive the news. He sends another message to Marshal Davout, and an entirely unrelated note to his brother Lucien.

This done, he now has to deal with the various requests of nobles vying for his time; reports from the chief of police, including rumors of yet another assassination conspiracy (which are getting a little old); the report of progress on a new bill, which should smooth exports to surrounding countries; and numerous other minor things, all tedious, all necessary.

No day, of course, is ever the same.

But there is one oddity in the day's routine which seems _exceptionally_ strange – strange enough to attract Napoleon's attention and prompt him to wave away his other messengers.

“Repeat that,” he tells the nervous young aviator.

Captain Bonnaire stiffens. Probably he did not expect to receive the Emperor's personal attention, and he leans away as he speaks, not quite daring to meet Napoleon's eyes. “There is a large Chinese dragon, Sir... that is, Your Majesty. A heavy-weight. He has surrendered to the covert at Calais. The captain is English, but he claims to have information for your ears only. And - “

The man hesitates.

“Well?” Napoleon asks, impatient.

“He also has a number of bags with him,” says the aviator, reluctant. “...Full of mushrooms. They smell quite terrible.”

* * *

 

The strange dragon is named Temeraire. He is the Celestial lost by the _Amitie,_ months ago, who was meant to be Napoleon's own companion.

The man is named William Laurence. He is English. He also introduces himself as a Chinese prince, and says he has arrived to deliver terms of a treaty.

This is so interesting that Napoleon clears his schedule and meets them both outside – that way Temeraire can join the conversation, of course. Napoleon has not heard of any new English incursions into China, and he cannot even fathom how a random Englishman could have gotten himself _adopted_ by that insular nation. It is sure to be a curious story.

But Mr. Laurence, disappointingly, does not care to answers his questions. He does say that he and Temeraire would like to help France; that they have already negotiated with the Chinese, on France's behalf, to establish a trading-agreement and terms of non-aggression; and finally, he claims that he wants to stay in Paris. Laurence wants to see the Empire unfold, he says. He _must_ see it unfold.

“We have only one request,” says the impertinent Englishman.

Napoleon is still too curious to be really affronted. “Name it,” he counters.

Laurence has brought to their talk the foul-smelling bags filled with mushrooms. These have gone ignored until now – with some difficulty – and he gestures to one of the sacks. “Your Majesty, we have here two-hundred pounds of African mushrooms. We would see these cultivated, and would have your word that in fourteen months your government will help distribute them throughout the surrounding countries – those who are your allies, as well as your enemies.”

A pause.

“...That is certainly the most unique demand I have heard to date,” says Napoleon. He is not only baffled, but all the more intrigued. At least his day has become interesting. “Tell me: if I ask, will you explain this request?”

Laurence seems prepared to explain. But Temeraire is the one who responds. “There will be a sickness,” he says. “A terrible, awful sickness, and it will kill many dragons unless they get this cure.”

“In fourteen months,” says Napoleon. “So, you will have every nation suffer until then?”

“The sickness does not exist yet.”

To this answer Napoleon's interest heightens. “Is that so?”

“You do not have to believe us,” Laurence says. “But if you give your word to help distribute the cure, we shall help France in any way possible.”

“You would promise the aid of the beast in exchange for mushrooms?”

“I am not a _beast,_ ” Temeraire reproves. “And if you think we can only help the Armee de l'Aire, you are wrong. Laurence has always said you are very clever, even if he does not much like your actions, but it seems to me you are very inefficient.”

Napoleon is amused. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” says Temeraire. “You do not properly use dragons in warfare; and I would say that this should have occurred to you before, but if you have not yet spoken to any dragons, who would after all know best, it is not surprising that you waste us.”

Napoleon leans back and appraises them. The dragon seems open, earnest, but William Laurence is harder to read. He stands in a tense posture, yet his shoulders sag low. His mouth is pinched with unhappiness, his eyes blank. He looks resigned and defeated. Nothing has yet clarified how the two came to be here, in the heart of Paris, making demands of the world's greatest emperor.

Napoleon orders, “Tell me how you would change our strategies.”

Temeraire tells him. He uses as an example an ingenious tactic of Chinese, which “by Laurence's estimation” could allow the French troops to travel fifty miles a day. He tells the Emperor how dragons might be used to aid construction, how they can carry far more complex weapons to assault ships, how even horses can become blinded to the dragon-smell so that their riders can enter the field under the shadow of wings.

“And also,” Temeraire says, “the food in this country is very poor; the Chinese and other nations feed dragons grains and vegetables, too, which I understand is much cheaper. It is very silly to keep using dragons poorly only because that is how things were done _before._ ”

This last argument seems to make an impact. Halfway through Temeraire's recitation Napoleon had brought out a sheathe of paper and began writing notes. He pauses to glance at William Laurence, but the man just watches Napoleon, apparently content to let his young dragon steer the conversation.

Now, considering Temeraire's point, Napoleon taps against the paper. “Always I have said it is best to be both a general and a soldier,” he says, “For only those who fight with their men can understand the field of battle. Now you shame me; of course dragons should be consulted about aerial-tactics.” Napoleon steals another glance. “Mr. Laurence. Do you intend to return to England?”

“I do not,” says Laurence. One could think he is pronouncing his own death.

Napoleon nods like this is only expected, not asking the thousand questions racing through his mind. “I offer you both positions,” he says, “To remain here as advisors. I would like to put more thought into these draconic tactics.”

“Then we shall advise you,” says Laurence. “But first you ought to send messengers to your ships in the east.”

“Should I?”

“We visited China before coming here,” says Laurence. “And then Africa, where we spoke to the leaders of the Tswana nation. You may be surprised to know that they field several thousand dragons.”

Napoleon lets his face betray nothing.

“They are coming here,” Laurence says. “King Moshushue is sending three chiefs to discuss terms for a treaty. They will aid you in the war, in exchange for a total end to slavery in French territories.”

“And you believe I will agree to these terms.”

“I believe you will be interested to know,” Laurence says, “That these three chiefs are heavy-weight dragons. Three of more than four-hundred heavy-weights who live in their main city. And I believe you cannot afford to make such an enemy, Your Majesty.”

“...I do not know whether to applaud you or arrest you,” Napoleon says at last. “So instead, I say again that you should make yourself a guest here. You will tell me more of your ideas for the Armee d'lair, and after I meet these Tswana I will see if your ideas have any worth.”

* * *

 

 

 

> **II. Enigma**

Napoleon meets with the Tswana.

After four days of negotiations he has to shut himself into his office. He spends three hours writing and discarding ideas – laws, letters, angry messages demanding to know _why no one knew_ about the veritably army in the middle of Africa. He spends another hour drinking himself into numbness, though no amount of liquor could adequately assuage the alarm caused by the day's negotiations.

As William Laurence warned, the Tswana sent dragons. The talks have thus far been a long series of cultural misunderstandings, but curiously Laurence seems to have some knowledge of the Tswana lifestyle, and they have a grudging, cautious respect for him in turn.

What Napoleon learns is this: the Tswana are led by dragons. Dragons get very angry when their people are stolen. The Tswana have an inland fortress and _thousands_ of dragons at their disposal, and they have been planning to wage war in defense of slaves stolen from their tribes over the past centuries.

France came perilously close to fighting an unlooked-for conflict she cannot afford. But the Tswana have agreed to accept the release of their people – along with certain reparations – and, as an exchange, they will sign a peace-treaty with France.

Even better, they have vowed to _aid_ France in future battles, so long as Napoleon promises that they will free any slaves they come across in the future.

Talleyrand and some of Napoleon's other advisors object. They counsel patience. They say France is strong, and should not pander to foreigners who can give no proof of their strength. They say the loss of slaves in French colonies will cause economic disaster. But in the end Napoleon believes his visitors, and it is an easy bargain.

Less easy is determining what to do about William Laurence.

He is _Prince_ Laurence, if the letter he holds – signed by the Jiaqing Emperor himself – is any proof of the matter. Again members of the court counsel Napoleon to wait, and yet Laurence's story is not completely unbelievable. Napoleon already knows that the Chinese were willing to give him a Celestial dragon only because of his status; Mr. Laurence's adoption makes some sense, though it admittedly strains belief.

Either way, Napoleon chooses to acknowledge Laurence as a foreign prince. The excuse of foreign diplomacy makes it easier to justify his own inclination to seek out Laurence for no particular purpose; the man never fails to intrigue him.

Today, for instance, Napoleon comes upon Captain Laurence speaking with an unfamiliar aviator lieutenant and Marshal Murat, who leads the Armee de l'Air.

Temeraire, Laurence explains, is greatly curious about formal fighting practices. He has learned much from the Tswana and the Chinese - now he would like to experience French customs too. Murat is equally curious for insights about the Chinese, who boast, supposedly, the most advanced dragons in the world. He accepts the offer willingly.

Murat asks if Laurence plans to join the ranks of French aviators.

“My first loyalty will always be to England,” says Laurence.

The unknown lieutenant jolts, but Napoleon just watches expectantly. “And so how do you justify it?” Murat asks. “Your offer to France seemed sincere enough; if you were a spy you would hardly be so blunt.”

Laurence seems to consider his response carefully. “I am doing what is best for England,” he explains. “Even if every soul in my country might disagree.”

* * *

 

Napoleon asks Captain Laurence to join him for dinner.

It is a private affair – private by the standards of an Emperor, anyway, which means that an annoying number of courtiers still join them to gawk. Josephine is dining with a friend, but her daughter Hortense sits beside Laurence. Judging by the way she keeps leaning over she seems to be pointing out everyone at the table. A faint – very faint – smile ghosts over Laurence's face when she indicates Talleyrand and whispers something.

Even when Laurence smiles he still seems sad.

“Prince Laurence,” says Murat at one point. “You are a military man, are you not? Be honest, what do you think of Nelson? They tell me he is the greatest naval tactician alive.”

“He has a discerning mind,” Laurence acknowledges. “Yet as a gentleman he is a little blunt, and I fear he does not use his influence to good purpose.”

“Know him well, do you?”

“He would say we are not acquainted.”

Murat is briefly disarmed; then he laughs. “Well! All the best soldiers are a little odd. And I have heard it said,” he continues, “that Nelson once captured four ships off the coast of Spain, with just two little frigates. Is that so?”

“Yes. And I think you should never be the King of Spain,” adds Laurence, apropos of nothing. “And that France ought never try to invade it.”

“Well, I will be sure to remember that,” says Murat with good humor.

But Napoleon frowns.

“We should never invade Spain,” he echoes. “Tell me why, Prince Laurence.”

Laurence twitches whenever he is called 'prince,' though he never objects. After a brief pause he obliges with a response. “Spain is divided even worse than the German states. Defeating their king would not make the people submit. Every village would rise against you, one by one. It is a fight that would last for years, and all for little gain.”

“We have no intentions of fighting Spain,” says Murat, a little confused at this turn in the conversation. But Napoleon leans back in his chair.

Laurence does not speak for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

One day Laurence strides up to Napoleon in the hall – ignoring the way all his guard tenses, ignoring how his aide-de-camp puts a hand on the hilt of his sword – and says, “Someone will try to assassinate you today.”

There's a moment of frozen silence. One of Napoleon's guard unsheathes a sword. Ignoring this, Napoleon asks, “How do you know?”

“I had forgotten,” says Laurence, vaguely. “It was not important.”

Napoleon's aide sputters. The Emperor raises his hand to silence any protests. “Explain,” he says.

Laurence obliges. He has a good number of details, but he will not say how he acquired the information. “At approximately three, when you take a coach along the River Seine, your path will be halted by a fire. Three men will try to kill you. They are I believe Royalists, although I cannot provide their names.”

Napoleon tilts his head. His primary method of avoiding assassination is to keep his schedule utterly secret. No one should know that he intended to ride along the river today. Yet Laurence knows - and these plotters, apparently.

“They would not manage to kill you,” Laurence adds after the silence has gone too long. “But there is no reason to be incautious, Your Majesty.”

Somehow Napoleon believes him. He always believes Prince Laurence, and that instinct has not yet led him astray.

“I shall take every precaution,” he says, and means it.

He contacts the Chief of Police, Fouche, and adjusts his schedule. Then he promptly forgets the whole meeting until a messenger arrives six hours later.

Fouche tells him that the conspirators have been caught; there was, indeed, a plan to kill him.

Napoleon acknowledges the message and keeps working. In his head he adds one more piece of evidence to his list.

* * *

 

It is nine at night when Napoleon finds Laurence standing in the hall of the Tuileries, staring outside.

The moon is half-full. The dark shadow of Temeraire's hulk is still visible in the courtyard, blocking the stars. He technically has a space at the nearest covert, but Napoleon offered use of the Palace to his guests and Laurence was quick to accept. By now the courtiers are almost accustomed to the dragon in the middle of their path outside; a few can be seen engaging Temeraire in spirited debate each morning.

One day, soon, Napoleon will start introducing dragons to other cities. But that is a task for another night.

Now he steps up beside Laurence. The man does not seem surprised. Laurence never seems surprised, not by anything.

“I heard you talking today,” Laurence says. “I would beg you, Sir, to not trust Talleyrand so much. He will betray you to Russia one day and you will curse his name.”

Napoleon files away this comment but otherwise ignores it. “Come join me in my study,” he says, putting a hand on Laurence's arm. The man follows him without protest.

Once alone he serves them both wine. Laurence remains standing, glancing around a little helplessly. He often seems lost without Temeraire, as though he does not understand where he is, or why.

Laurence starts to drink the wine when Napoleon does. He consumes large gulps with almost rude eagerness, as though he wants nothing more than to soften the reality of what is happening.

“I have just met you,” says Napoleon after a few minutes silence. “Yet I feel I could trust you more than anyone in all this country.”

Laurence inhales. “You can. Though I cannot promise my advice will always be useful. Nor can I give you my loyalty - only my service.”

Napoleon knows this. He knows and it gnaws at him, that under all Laurence's politeness and advice he thinks only of England.

Suddenly Laurence speaks, words overflowing as though he cannot suppress himself.

"I wonder if I could have convinced them," he tells Napoleon. He does not say who 'they' are. "I know - I know it would not have worked. Nothing would have changed, and I may have made things worse. This was the only choice; I am sure of it. I am certain..."

Napoleon sets down his glass, then takes away Laurence's wine. The man looks at his hand with blank confusion, as though he doesn't understand what's happening. Napoleon sets the glasses aside and steps forward, curling up one hand around Laurence's cheek.

He _still_ does not seem surprised, damn him. Just lost.

“Your Majesty,” says Laurence. And then falls silent.

“Do you want this?” Napoleon asks.

Laurence does not meet his eyes. With his other hand Napoleon pulls them together; pressed flush against his chest Laurence flushes, but only slightly.

“Do you want this?” Napoleon repeats.

Laurence speaks slowly, as though from far away. “I do not think it has ever mattered what I desire. Things happen as they will. And I can only be swept along, or not.” A pause. “...Yet sometimes I wonder why I resist.”

“I do not care for your moral quandaries today,” says Napoleon. “Surely this is a simple question.”

Laurence hesitates. He looks a little more awake now, and his eyes flicker toward the door. “The Empress - “

“Does not care,” says Napoleon. “She has her own lovers; she is only bothered by the women, anyway. She is always afraid I will make a bastard.”

“You _do_ have bastards,” says Laurence, with rare sarcasm.

“Which is why she should be glad when I choose a man,” says Napoleon.

Laurence sighs but does not argue. Neither does he push Napoleon away. Instead he leans forward, grasping Napoleon's arm. But just as the Emperor thinks he has triumphed, Laurence says, “First you must make a promise.”

“Must I?”

“Yes.”

Napoleon is amused. “Were you anyone else I would be suspicious; yet your bargains always amuse me. What shall I promise? Do you want me to place a fountain under the sea, or award medals to the dragons? Shall I set up a charity for people born without fingers, so they might learn how to weave? Name your strange request.”

“You must vow to never marry the Incan Empress,” says Laurence, and Napoleon bursts out laughing.

Laurence does not even smile. He is plainly serious, and at last Napoleon relents. “Yes! Yes, very well. You are the cheapest lover I will ever know. In the unlikely event I divorce Josephine – or take up bigamy, perchance – I will not marry the Incan Empress. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” Laurence replies.

“Then kiss me,” says Napoleon.

And Laurence does.

* * *

 

 

 

 

> **IV. England**

 

 

Often Prince Laurence sits outside with Temeraire, disdaining human company. He sometimes brings books of different origins – English, French, Latin, Mandarin. Once Napoleon walks by and hears him speaking in stilted Russian; another day he speaks to Temeraire in an African tongue, or so Emperor learns from an off-hand comment by a Xhosa representative.

When Laurence wanders around the grounds – as he does – Temeraire will sometimes leave to run drills at the nearby covert. They seem fond of one another, Laurence and Temeraire, and yet there is an odd distance between them that Napoleon cannot understand.

One day Napoleon steps outside and sees Temeraire alone in the courtyard. He approaches.

“I have not asked,” says Napoleon, and Temeraire raises his head. “But you were once meant to be my companion. I hope you are happy with Laurence?”

“Oh, of course I am,” says the dragon. “Laurence is wonderful; he is the best person in the world. It is only...”

Napoleon waits.

“It is only,” the dragon continues, guilty, “That sometimes I think he is very sad. I do not understand why, but I cannot make him happy, no matter how hard I try. Of course I know it must be hard – that is – with what he knows - “

The dragon stops.

But Napoleon understands. “You can say it,” he encourages.

“No – No, I cannot,” says Temeraire. “He says that no one would believe it... but it makes him so sad - “

“I would imagine so. Prince Laurence has seen the future, has he not?”

Napoleon has always been superstitious. Not religious, but superstitious. As a boy his teachers would scold him for it, but Napoleon has always known that some men are different from others. Some people – like himself – have great destinies. Is it so strange to think that the universe might nudge those destinies along, might let some people catch a glimpse of Fate so they can help lead the world?

William Laurence is an enigma; perhaps he will remain one, always. But Napoleon must _try_ to understand him. His curiosity, his ambition, will not allow him to waste such a potential trove of knowledge.

“Yes,” concedes Temeraire. “He has seen the future. I do not know how, or why, but he has spoken a little of it. He has already told the Chinese and the Tswana some things, and they became very eager to help us then. Laurence will not tell me  _why_ he wants to support France, in particular, but I know it has something to do with those things he knows.”

“Things which bring him sorrow,” says Napoleon. Things which have made him turn, desperately, toward the Empire.

“I think perhaps someone died,” Temeraire explains, eager to speak of the secret at last. “I think that he lost someone, and it hurts him terribly.”

“I think he lost many people,” says Napoleon, and in his mind he pictures Laurence as he so often looks, quiet and grieving. Yes, that is the word. He grieves for things that have not happened, that perhaps never will. “And I think he has lost a country.”

Perhaps, one day, Laurence will know that he's gained one too.

* * *

 

The end of October dawns crisp and cold. Napoleon leaves the Tuileries surrounded by a crowd of aides, four secretaries, and several of his Marshals. The time has come at last.

But once outside, Napoleon pauses.

He veers away from his intended course, waving his constant retinue to remain back. Alone he approaches the colossal black dragon curled in the middle of the courtyard.

The dragon sleeps. But William Laurence sits patient at his side, looking for all the world like he expected the Emperor to drop by for a chat. Perhaps he did.

“Sometimes I wonder if there is a purpose to any of this,” says Laurence without preamble.

“I will be away on business for a few days,” says Napoleon. “But if you wish...”

Laurence doesn't seem to notice his words. “There will be a courier. Jeremy Rankin, who will cross the border near Calais. Capture him before he can warn Dover, or the casualties will be great.”

“I will send a patrol,” Napoleon acknowledges. He stops prevaricating; plainly Laurence knows about the invasion. “You are English. Are you not conflicted about helping us?”

“I am conflicted every day of my life,” says Laurence. “I do not see how today should be any different.”

A pause. And then Laurence says, “Allow us to accompany you.”

Napoleon is surprised. Laurence is always surprising him. “What, to battle?”

“If I am damned as a traitor,” says Laurence, “Then let me be damned in full, and not shirk from what must be done.”

“You _do_ feel loyal to England,” Napoleon wonders. It is one thing for a man to just proclaim loyalty. Napoleon is a soldier; he has heard thousands of men give vows they will not respect. But always Laurence bargains with him and asks for his word, for guarantees of the future. He is a man who does not take promises lightly. Napoleon says, “You told me once that you would be loyal to England, above all else. Is that still true?”

“Yes. Always. And that is why I will help you subdue her swiftly, so her people will suffer as little as possible.”

Napoleon considers. Every piece of common-sense tells him that taking a loyal Englishman into the upcoming battle can only end in betrayal.

But for all his strangeness, Laurence has never lied to him.

“Then you should rouse Temeraire,” he says. “We are leaving now.”

* * *

 

Everything goes better than Napoleon could have imagined.

The English fleet – and their dragons at Dover – have no inkling of the French invasion. The first transport lands before the English dragons arrive; the second hits the shore while they are still trying to cross the Channel and meet combat. By the time Napoleon reaches the fight on the coast the Aerial Corps have been decimated, the hastily-erected coastal defenses totally destroyed.

Overhead a black Celestial circles Napoleon's position. It feels like a good omen.

From above Temeraire fends off any dragons that approach the men on the ground. He hovers over Napoleon like an avenging angel, and on his back Napoleon catches a glimpse of Laurence wearing his green Chinese robes, a shocking splash of color.

Temeraire. A French name, meaning 'reckless'.

Napoleon has often been called reckless, too. But more often than not his daring pays off.

The shore is secure within an hour of the first landing. Those dragons that drop off the transports gradually situate themselves around the shore. Two thousand men land. Four thousand. Six thousand. A hundred thousand.

And then, once the English militia has fled, the men start to climb aboard special rigging hanging from each of the dragons. Laurence's idea, that invention. Heavy-weight dragons can carry the main troops with a few light-weights acting as guards.

The fighting is continuous, but they reach London within the day.

The city is in full panic. The bulk of Napoleon's forces – more than two-hundred dragons, carrying almost forty-thousand troops – surround the city. It surrenders within only a few hours.

But Napoleon doesn't enter the city at once. He learns that certain members of the Aerial Corps have been captured trying to stop the invasion.

He goes to speak with their captains, and he takes Laurence with him.

* * *

  
“We will tell you nothing,” says Captain Harcourt. “Damn you all to hell.”

By his side Laurence's face seems bloodless. He keeps staring at the aviators. Napoleon knows better than to ask him any questions; like as not he will be ignored.

In truth, half the reason he wanted to talk to these officers personally is because Laurence looked ready to faint when an aide reported their capture. It is rare for Laurence to react to anything – to be passionate about _anything,_ except for his love of England – and Napoleon cannot help but be curious.

He steps toward the captains and Laurence does too, as though pulled along on a string. Nearby Marshal Lannes watches them, scowling beside a tense group of guards. His Marshals, his ministers – none of them understand his preoccupation with Laurence. But that's fine. No one ever sees the world as Napoleon does. That is why he is the Emperor.

There are four captains arrayed before them. The woman, who has a Longwing; the captain of a Regal Copper; a short man with a Yellow Reaper; and finally a nervous older fellow, who captains a Pascal's Blue.

None of these people, or their dragons, are in any way extraordinary.

Napoleon asks to know the numbers of the nearest covert; the name of the commander; the place of their retreat. Captain Harcourt is barely civil from the start, and she soon seethes with anger as the questions continue.

She tells him that she has the last active Longwing this side of the Isle, and by god her Lily will die before going to a French breeding ground.

“That is a lie,” says Laurence suddenly. He seems to shrink when all attention turns to him, but continues, folding his hands stiffly behind his back. “Captain Jane Roland has a Longwing, and her own formation; they are flying in defense of the covert even now. Mortiferus should be close behind."

“And who the devil are you?” Berkley demands. Laurence actually flinches.

“Prince Laurence is quite familiar with England,” says Napoleon. The aviators regard him with suspicion. “Perhaps, Laurence, you will share our plan of attack with these fine officers?”

Napoleon has not told Laurence about his intentions. But it seems Laurence can guess. “You will set up in London,” he says. “Force the ministers to hand over the city. And you will give the citizens freedom, so that they respect you and start to think French rule may not be objectionable at all. You will go forth and demand the surrender of every city, while your Marshals rouse Ireland to your support and the King flees to Scotland.”

Laurence pauses. The aviators look simultaneously stricken and furious. “They will hold out a few months,” Laurence says at last. “If they retreat constantly. Nelson's ships will hold out a short while, but England does not have enough dragons to halt the flow of supplies. By late January, or February perhaps, you will have most of the country.”

“We will not surrender that easily,” says Harcourt.

“It is best that you do,” says Laurence. “It is all better this way.”

He says nothing more. Napoleon orders the aviators removed, and they leave in sullen humor. When they are gone Laurence turns to Napoleon, his face like stone, and leans in close.

“There is a great many thing I will do for France,” Laurence says, tone very low. “There are a great many things I _must_ do. But if you force me into such a situation again, then by god, you will know what it means to have me as an enemy.”

He leaves. Napoleon looks after him, half-impressed and wondering. He truly does not know why the aviators affected Laurence so deeply.

And he is a bit surprised to realize that Laurence _will_ lie to him, after all. If very badly.

Wonders never cease.

* * *

 

Prime Minister Pitt was in the city when it surrendered; he ordered the surrender himself, in fact. Napoleon orders Laurence to accompany him to the minister's residence at Number 10 Downing Street, using the justification of Laurence's native-knowledge of the country to excuse his presence. If Laurence thinks him a poor liar, he does not say so.

“Well,” says Napoleon when they finally enter the house. “I cannot say I expected this. I have never heard it said that Pitt is a coward.”

The servants who attend Pitt's body – English - shoot him dark looks but say nothing. The room is in disarray – the desk-drawers standing open, papers crumpled around the floor, some deliberately burnt. And on the desk are a number of thick tablets.

“Poison,” pronounces Lannes, inspecting one. He sets it on the table and steps back. “Well, the city is certainly yours, My Emperor. Shall I see who among the staff survive?”

“Yes,” says Napoleon. “Gather the highest-ranking people you can find and assemble them at Westminster; we must have _someone_ to recognize the official surrender.” Lannes leaves, and Napoleon inspects the room with faint distaste.

Laurence slowly steps forward. He stares at Pitt's body. “I did not expect this,” he says.

Napoleon pronounces it a great waste. “But we are already losing our advantage of surprise; come, my friend. Let us finish this business quickly and move on.”

He turns to leave. But at the threshold of the room, Napoleon pauses.

He turns back and sees Laurence standing at the Minister's desk, heedless of the servants now covering Pitts' corpse with a white sheet. In Laurence's palm he cradles a few of the unassuming pills still scattered around the Minister's desk. Laurence's face is very pale, and his countenance more solemn than Napoleon has ever seen him.

“Prince Laurence?” Napoleon prompts. “Are you coming? There is still much to do.”

Laurence looks at him as though coming out of a dream. Slowly he drops one pill back on the desk. Then another, and another, until they are all discarded.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says.

And he follows Napoleon out of the room without looking back.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
